


you know our love would be tragic

by wheniwasonashelf



Category: B.A.P, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gen, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 06:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12858738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheniwasonashelf/pseuds/wheniwasonashelf
Summary: The slam! of the front door was what finally woke Junhong. For a moment he basks in Daehyun’s warmth, feeling the rise and fall of his chest under his arm. He drifts, the haze of sleep threatening to pull him back under, until footsteps rush past the bedroom door, continuing down the hallway towards Himchan’s room. He waits, listening.The house is eerily quiet.





	you know our love would be tragic

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [you make it look like it's magic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4832954) by [andnowforyaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya). 



The slam! of the front door was what finally woke Junhong. For a moment he basks in Daehyun’s warmth, feeling the rise and fall of his chest under his arm. He drifts, the haze of sleep threatening to pull him back under, until footsteps rush past the bedroom door, continuing down the hallway towards Himchan’s room. He waits, listening.

  
The house is eerily quiet.

  
He slips from Daehyun’s back, careful not to wake the other, scooping up his clothes, and tip-toeing into the now empty hallway. He shimmies into them, ignoring the way he reeks of pheromones, sweat, sex, and pads down the hallway, following the only sound in the whole house.

  
He pauses in the kitchen doorway, taking in the back of Youngjae, who was franticly chopping handful of fresh greenery, a pot of water bubbling on the stove. The only one he recognizes by sight is yarrow, but this isn’t really his forte. He sniffs, trying to figure out what else is in Youngjae's pile, but instead is hit with the acrid scent of bleach. He turns to find Jongup, who is furiously scrubbing at the counter hidden behind the island.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” He asks, his voice muzzy with sleep, barely carrying over the roiling water. Jongup’s scrubbing stops, his eyes meeting Junhong’s, body tensing up.

  
Junhong wanders towards the counter and the scent of blood hits him so strongly he nearly retches, freezing in his tracks. His eyes rake over the counter, the floor, Jongup’s hands, and the rest of the bloodstains Jongup was trying so hard to scrub away.

  
“What happened?!”

  
Jongup kicks Youngjae in order to get his attention, and makes eyes towards their youngest. He steps away from the stove, closing the distance between them.

“It’s okay—" Voice pitched low and soothing.

“Who’s blood is that?” His voice trembling, eyes still glued on the counter. Youngjae’s hand slips up the back of his neck, turning his gaze away.

“All of our’s probably,” Jongup says from the sink, exhaustion evident in his voice.  
Youngjae turns to hiss at him as Junhong pushes him off, ripping open the denim shirt hanging from Youngjae’s shoulders. He only sees three parallel gashes running from collarbone to sternum, over his heart, maybe an hour or so old, already scabbed over. He turns to Jongup, surveying his bare chest, and again finding nothing to explain the bloodbath staining the countertop. He then notices Himchan’s paramedic bag splayed open on the kitchen table. He had the rig today, he and Jongup were supposed to be on call.

“Where’s Himchan?” His heart beating out of his chest.

“He’s fine,” Jongup answers, his own voice strong and clear, grounding the youngest but doing little to dispel the dread settling like a weight in the pit of his stomach.

“Yongguk?” They both are silent. Ice washes down his spine. Howling cuts into Junhong’s panic, “What is going on?!” He chokes out, rigid in Youngjae's grip

“Yongnam is here—“

But Junhong doesn’t let him finish, wrenching out of his grip, making for the back hallway, but Jongup is quicker, latching on to his bicep, and grinding him to a halt.

“Let him go,” Youngjae says softly, not meeting either of their eyes.

Junhong races out of the kitchen, feet following the same path as the pair he heard earlier. He bursts through Himchan’s door, freezing barely inside the threshold. He's met with the sight of his alpha supine on the bed, swathed in gauze, partially obscured by Himchan who sitting next to his feet, hand wound tight around his ankle. Yongnam is hovering by his head, one hand covering his brother’s heart, the other gripping his shoulder, his head bowed and eyes screwed shut.

Himchan is in Junhong's face in a matter of seconds, trying to crowd him out the door.

“Move. Junhong. Come on, move,” He hisses, pushing at the younger's chest, lips brushing against his jaw.

Junhong’s eyes are fixed to the bandage adhered to the side of Yongguk’s neck a ,stark red against so much white. Himchan overpowers him, manhandling him out into the hallway, before shutting it behind them. Junhong stands rooted in that spot, eyes burning a hole in the door.

“Where’s Dae?” Weariness drip from Himchan's words, running a hand through his sweat stiff hair, and looking down the hall, listening.

“Is he dying?” The last word strangled, fear curling icily in his chest.

“Yongnam won’t let him.”

“Oh God—” Junhong's voice cracks, eyes flicking to Himchan’s steely gaze, taking in the strain, the grief. He notices for the first time the dried blood splashed down the length of Himchan’s clothes, “What happened?”

“Where’s Daehyun?”

“Sleeping. Hyung what—?”

“We were ambushed. The new pack didn’t just want introductions," Junhong’s hands ball up into fists, a growl bubbling up from low in his chest. “Thank God Namjoon’s pack was nearby,” Himchan runs a hand over his face, “We were lucky—“

Junhong moves away, a determined set in his shoulders, but Himchan grabs his arm,

“Don’t,” His tone uncompromising, “Don’t leave the house, don’t do anything stupid.”

Junhong tries to wrench away from his grip, a snarl ripping through his throat,

“You’re too emotional. If you go out there—“ He cuts himself off, struggling to start again. Instead he steps forward and sags, forehead coming to rest on Junhong’s sternum, hand still tight around the other’s forearm, “Just don’t, please,” He says quietly, muffled against the other's chest.

The fight leaves Junhong, folding the older man in his arms,

“Promise me you won’t do anything.”

“Promise,” Junhong whispers into the other’s hair, inhaling the stale smell of sweat, the coppery scent of blood, and underneath all of that, the coconut shampoo Himchan refuses to share with the rest of them.

“With Yongnam’s pack here, this'll end quickly,” Himchan murmurs.

They stay intertwined, Junhong rubbing circles into the other’s back, breathing syncing up.

A livid howl rips through the silence, much closer and much louder than before, both startling at the noise.

"Get Dae upstairs,” Himchan's face dark, moving before Junhong even registers the weight gone from his chest. He scrambles to follow Himchan towards the kitchen.

“Hyung—“

“Please just—“ He is cut off by the slam of the back door and the chaos of shouts, snarls, and growls that follows. Junhong freezes in shock, Himchan sprinting for the the back door.

A crash from living room has him moving.

He finds one of Namjoon's sprawled on the floor, attempting to push himself up. He has gauze wrapped around his forehead, right arm strung up in a makeshift sling. Next to him the floor lamp is upended, lightbulb smashed across the carpet. A mostly melted bag of ice lays abandoned on the couch.  
Jimin, his mind supplies, one of their omegas.

“Are you alright?” Junhong gingerly helping him upright. The other doesn’t answer, pushing forward, his strength momentarily surprising Junhong. He steps away, listing towards the wall, but Junhong is there, easily supporting his weight, pushing him back towards the couch.

“No nono,” He protests, his words slurring together, “I haf t’go. ‘Sss hurt. Need t’help,” Still pushing against Junhong’s hands, deaf to his attempts at comfort. The snarls in the kitchen turn into human shouts, whimpers, and curses, renewing Jimin’s efforts.

“Jimin-ssi,” His voice firm and gentle, despite the barely controlled dread festering in his chest, waiting for the other’s attention. It takes a moment for Jimin to find Junhong's eyes,“We’ll take care of him,” Who, he isn’t sure. He puts a restraining hand on Jimin’s good shoulder, trying to still his protests, “Just, stay here.” He tries for a reassuring smile, unsure of how successful it turned out until Jimin nods, settling back on the couch.

Junhong stands, starting to calculate the odds of being able to move Daehyun upstairs without waking him, when the commotion from the kitchen falls completely and utterly silent.

Jimin’s eyes snap open.

“Yoongi.“ He chokes out, launching himself off the couch, and past Junhong before he has a chance to react. It takes a moment for him to unfreeze, dogging in the other’s footsteps. He reaches Jimin in the doorway of the kitchen, grasping him under the arms just as he’s sinking to the floor, horrified by the scene in front of them.

Yoongi is spread across the countertop, unconscious, blood and dirt caked over his body. Hoseok is standing at his head, bloodstained hands braced on either side of the his neck. Himchan and Youngjae are behind him, hands tight around his ankles, and waist, hip and shoulders respectively, holding Yoongi steady. Jongup is bent behind his shoulders, a blood stained towel thrown over his shoulder.

“We need to immobilize him,” Himchan, an undercurrent of urgency to his words.

Jongup doesn’t waver, taping ABD pad after ABD pad over the wound, trying to stem the blood flow, “I’m going as fast as I can,” He bites out, “but it’s not letting up,”

At this Jimin surges forward, almost breaking free of Junhong’s grasp, a whimper falling from his lips, attracting Hoseok’s attention.

“Jimin—“ His voice thin, distracted, hands faltering on Yoongi’s neck.

“Junhong,” Himchan, still calm as ever, his tone gentle and commanding, “Get him out of here.”

“Come on,” Junhong tightens his grip on Jimin, arms crisscrossing over the other’s chest, pulling him back,“There’s nothing we can do to help him,” He tries to be firm, edging them both out of the kitchen, despite the shorter’s struggle, ”Let the others work.”

“Min-ah—” He goes still in Junhong’s arms, eyes locking with Hoseok's, "Its okay, I've got him.”

With that, Jimin lets himself be manhandled out of the kitchen, the adrenaline from earlier dissipating, leaving him weak and shaking. He lets his weight falls forward onto Junhong’s chest. Junhong wraps an arm around his shoulders, hoping to impart some sort of comfort.

They stand there for a long time, until Hoseok comes out from the kitchen and Jimin goes to him like a magnet, folding into each other's arms, a whispered conversation stretching between them.

Junhong straightens up, not liking the odds of being able to move Daehyun upstairs without waking him.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was fully inspired by andnowforyaya’s beautiful fic, you make it look like it's magic. GO READ IT and weep at how lovely it is. After I read it, my brain immediately went, ‘You know what this needs? Angst and violence and hurt/comfort.’ And apparently BTS. 
> 
> So here we are.


End file.
